The Consulting Hunter
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: Sam and Dean get a call from a contact in London about werewolf attacks and find it hard to keep a low profile when they meet Sherlock Holmes, a man who seems to know everything about them from a single glance. Note: Takes place long after Reichenbach.
1. On The Case

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**For once, I wrote a fiction that doesn't really have any pairings, so if you don't like Johnlock or Destiel or Wincest (I hate Wincest anyway so I'd never write it) then it's not here.**

**Also, you really need background knowledge for Supernatural to get this, but maybe not for Sherlock so much. It'll be more entertaining for you to read if you are very familiar with both. Also, the sequels will delve more into Sherlock. Just because some people read cross-overs when they only know one of the shows well. I suggest you don't do that with this one.**

**Also again, reviews are appreciated, so PLEASE leave them!**

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Sam and Dean were sitting in a mostly deserted diner, Sam looking onto his brother in disgust as he fanatically shoveled pie into his already full mouth. Sam was _trying_ to pay attention to the newspaper in front of him, looking for something that might have been their kind of thing.

"It's weird," Sam said, "I can't find anything that looks like a case."

Dean spoke, not bothering to finish chewing before he did so. "Maybe the evil sons of bitches are on a break. I just wanna finish a slice of pie for once."

Sam rolled his eyes. "They're never on a break," he insisted, "we must be missing something."

Dean shrugged, because his mouth was too full to even attempt talking by that point.

"Maybe you should drink some of that coffee, Dean," Sam said pointedly. "It might get some of that pie down."

Dean attempted to swallow. "It'll wuin duh plavor," he said, spitting out a little food in the attempt to speak.

"God, chew and swallow before you talk again, will you?"

Dean shrugged again. Just then, Dean's phone began to vibrate and he looked at Sam with a big eyed expression, probably trying to say, "I can't answer with my mouth this full!"

Sam inhaled and held his hand out for the phone, so Dean dug it out of his pocket and handed it to his brother.

"This is Sam Winchester," he answered, going outside. Dean just stared down at his pie, marveling at how big of a piece it was. This diner had a big sign outside, advertising that they had the biggest slices of pie in America. Dean had to see for himself, being an expert on large and delicious pie, and it turned out they were probably telling the truth.

Then Sam popped his head in the front door to the diner, gesturing for Dean to come outside. Dean pointed down to his pie with a distressed look on his face, which just made Sam wave his arm more energetically. Dean inwardly sighed, accepting the fact that he was never going to finish a slice of pie in his stupid life, and set down a twenty as he got up and went outside.

"This better be good," Dean said, finally having no food in his mouth.

"George Witherston called."

"Wait, that hunter from England?"

"Yeah. He said that it looks like there've been werewolf attacks in London."

Dean nodded. "Okay. So why are you telling me this?"

Sam looked at him exasperatedly. "Because we're going to go take care of it, Dean."

"But George is a hunter."

"Do you realize how old he is now? He told me himself, he can't hunt anymore. It's why he called us. Plus, you've been wanting a job for days."

"Well… yeah…" Dean said apprehensively.

Then Sam realized why Dean was acting so weird about it. "Dean, planes hardly ever crash. It'll be fine."

"No way. I'm not going on a plane again."

"You did it to burn Crowley's bones!"

"Yeah, for _Bobby_! It was a special case. Never again, Sam."

"Well then I'm going alone."

"No you aren't," Dean said. "We'll take a boat."

"Dean, we can't take a boat. We're going on a plane whether you like it or not."

Dean stood there, glaring at Sam murderously, his face going red. For half a second, Sam thought he might start bawling like a baby. Then Dean hollered, "**_CAAAAAAS!_**"

"Come on, don't call—" Sam was saying, but Castiel, angel of the lord, appeared before them in a moment anyway.

"You called?" Cas asked.

"Yeah," Dean replied, "We need you to do your angel thing and zap us to England."

It was quiet for a moment. "You called me to have me take you to England."

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Sorry, Cas," Sam muttered. "He hates planes."

Castiel looked angry for a moment, but then nodded. "Okay," he replied, before touching them both on the shoulder. A white light engulfed them both before they appeared… in the middle of a busy street.

"Cas!" Dean yelled.

"Sorry," Cas replied, zapping them over to the sidewalk. He looked around at the people who were staring at the three, who had just appeared in the middle of a crowd. A surprisingly small amount of people actually noticed, but still, the few who did had stopped walking to gape. "I probably could have been a little less conspicuous," Castiel decided.

"Yeah, maybe a little," Sam muttered. "But still, thank you."

Castiel nodded and then vanished.

"He wasn't in a very good mood," Dean noticed.

"He's not our personal valet, Dean."

"What else is he doing?" Dean asked.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Let's just find George."

It didn't take them too long to find George's flat, for they were used to being in new cities without very much direction as to where to go.

"Yes?" George said as he answered. George Witherston was an average height guy that was probably in his early sixties. You could tell that he used to be muscular, but was gaining weight. He was leaning heavily on a cane, which probably explained why he couldn't hunt anymore.

"You called us. I'm Sam Winchester," Sam said.

The guys' eyes got big. "That was fast! How did you get here so quickly?"

"We have our ways," Dean said with a smirk.

"You really grew tall, both of you," George said (though it was clear he was looking mostly at Sam. Even though Dean was a tall guy too, it was hard to notice with a Sasquatch next to him) "Come on in," he added.

They were sitting in the front room with tea cups in their hands. Dean sniffed it and made a disapproving face. George noticed.

"I have coffee, if that'd be better," George said.

"That'd be great," Dean said in relief. Sam didn't bother to mention that coffee was a lot stronger in the UK because he wanted to see Dean's face when he tried it.

Once they were all settled down, George talked to them about the attacks in town. There had been three so far, all appearing to be animal attacks except for the fact that the heart was missing. The lunar cycle was right too.

"Definietly sounds like werewolves," Dean agreed.

"You got here so fast, the last attack was less than an hour ago. The police are probably at the site now."

"Could you tell us where that is?" Sam asked.

The two of them caught a taxi and got to the scene of the murder and, as George had guessed, the police were still there.

They were met at the perimeter by a pretty woman with mocha skin and very curly hair. They flashed their badges, which showed they were from the wildlife preserve.

"Hello there," Sam said with a pretty impressive English accent, and she let them pass.

"Since when can you do an accent?" Dean asked.

"Since high school," Sam replied. "So just don't talk."

"Hey, I can do one too. I'm not stupid."

"Right," Sam muttered.

There were several people in the area, but the first who came up to them was a rather grumpy looking man with gray hair. He didn't seem all that old.

"Donavan tells me your wildlife preserve," the man said.

Dean nodded. "I'm John Tyler and this is Steve Lennon." Sam was sruprised that Dean's accent wasn't terrible either. Well, at least the man didn't look at him like he had said something odd.

"Inspector Lestrade," the man replied, sounding tired. "You know, this isn't really my department, these animal attacks. I have… well, one of my men insists it isn't animal attacks."

"Couldn't he be wrong?" Sam suggested.

"He's never wrong," Lestrade muttered.

"Well, he must be some sort of genius," Dean said with an amiable grin.

Lestrade did not smile. "Yeah, something like that."

That was when the woman from the perimeter, Donovan, announced, "The freak's here!"


	2. Meeting Sherlock

Sam and Dean looked over as a new man entered the scene. He was probably about Dean's height with unruly black curls, extremely prominent cheek bones, and a long, dark coat. Somehow, he had this presence that was both intriguing and unsettling—people in the vicinity couldn't help but steal glances at him in some sort of grudging fascination. There was another man with him, a little older and a lot shorter, with sandy blonde hair. He was more innocent looking than his partner, yes, but his complete sense of calm so near a dead body pointed towards the idea that he was not as harmless as he appeared.

The new man, who Sam and Dean could both figure was not a cop by his lack of badge—and his partner's very non-formal sweater and jeans—came over to the body. The area had gotten a little quieter the moment he arrived. He stared down at it, but didn't say anything.

"I should go talk to him," Lestrade said, walking away. Sam and Dean were figuring there wasn't much more to see here and were thinking about leaving when finally somebody spoke.

"So, really, this has to be an animal attack," Lestrade finally said.

"I really wish you wouldn't speak," the man in the coat replied rather rudely.

"But Sherlock—"

"Shut up!"

"Sherlock," said the short man in the sweater. "Please, if you think it's not an animal attack, tell us what you think it is."

The man, apparently called Sherlock, looked like he was about to be rude but thought better of it. "Look at his chest, John."

"I know, the heart's missing."

"Animals don't do that. And look at the way the lacerations are done. They're very deliberate. Sure, I can't explain why I can't see a pattern between the victims, but give me a little time and I'll figure that out too."

Then Sherlock looked up and met eyes with Sam and Dean and leaned over and murmured something to Lestrade.

"Oh, don't bother them," he replied.

Sherlock ignored him and approached Sam and Dean. He looked at them with narrowed eyes.

"Can I help you with something?" Sam asked in his accent.

"You say you're wildlife preserve?"

"That's us. We just wanted to ask a few questions—"

"I won't answer your questions. I'm here to question you, not the other way around."

Sam and Dean glanced at each other. "Who're you?" Dean finally asked.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Though that's not going to be what you'll be consulting me for, I'm assuming."

"What?"

"God, will you stop with the accents already? I know you're American. Your clothes show it all, they're too bright. Plus, look at your posture. Obviously American. You also aren't any government officials. Obvious. So, you must have vested interest in the case, which would make me think you know this man, except you aren't at all upset, which means you either have no feelings or have no relation to this man at all. Which makes me think you know something about how the murders were committed, which obviously brings me to one conclusion: You two are hunters."

Sam and Dean were usually light on their feet when it came to responses to get themselves out of trouble, but this man had startled them so thoroughly that it took them a minute to say anything.

"Are you a hunter too?" Dean asked, dropping the accent.

"No, of course not, look at me. Do I look like a hunter? I told you, I'm a consulting detective. But, in the past, I've been known as a Consulting Hunter."

At this point, his partner came up beside him. "Are you harassing these men?"

"No, they need my help."

"Do we?" Sam asked, a little irritated. Honestly, who did this guy think he was?

"What's a Consulting—" Dean started.

"Detective?" the shorter man incorrectly assumed. "Basically he helps—"

"If by 'helps' you mean does everything for…" Sherlock interrupted.

"—Scotland Yard with cases—"

"If by 'Scotland Yard' you mean these idiots," Sherlock added.

"Will you shut up?" the short man snapped. To the boys' surprise, Sherlock shut his mouth, even though he had a petulant look on his face. "I'm sorry about Sherlock, he's not great with people. My name's John, John Watson," he said, sticking out a hand to shake. Sam and Dean shook it. "Now, what does Sherlock think he can help you with?"

"They're hunters, John," Sherlock said, "The sons of the one we met."

John looked at them with interest. "You're John Winchester's sons?"

Dean had to use all his willpower not to let his jaw drop.

"You knew our dad?" Sam blurted.

"Yeah," John said before Sherlock could speak, "he came here for a hunt—you two must be here for that too, aren't you? I always thought all that supernatural business was rather odd, but sometimes when a hunter is out of their league, they call Sherlock."

"Thus the term 'Consulting Hunter'," Sherlock added.

"Okay…" Dean said, "except this case looks easy. It's a werewolf. Has to be."

"No, actually, it's not," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"How would you know?" Dean scoffed.

"Let him talk, Dean," Sam said. "If dad went to him for advice, he knows his stuff."

Dean and Sam were silent, looking at the man. "So? What is it?"

"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock replied, "But it's not a werewolf."

Dean stared at him. "Really. _That's_ your theory. Fascinating."

"Take a look at the body," Sherlock said as he glared. "You'll see it too. But wait until everyone leaves. They'll be gone in twenty minutes."

Dean and Sam waited on the sidelines with John and Sherlock, watching as the Scotland Yard team began to leave. Some people were still there to actually clean up the body, but the actual detectives didn't see any point in staying.

"Told you it's just animal attacks, Sherlock," Lestrade said to Sherlock.

"Oh yes, of course it is," Sherlock said mockingly.

"So why don't you head home?"

"We will soon."

Lestrade nodded and they all left. Sam checked his watch. It had been almost exactly twenty minutes. He looked over to Sherlock. _Maybe Dean was onto something when he said Sherlock was some sort of genius, _Sam considered.

The boys went up to the body, checking it out. The people there were getting ready to clean up the body, so they didn't have much time, unless they were going to look at the body again in the coroner's office.

It was a man, probably middle aged. He had cuts, mostly on his torso… but then Sam and Dean were able to see what Sherlock meant. There were certain cuts that seemed really deliberate, like someone was being very careful when they did them.

"Both of his thumbs are gone," Sam said aloud.

"It was like that on all the bodies," Sherlock said, sounding distinctly like Christmas had come early. He didn't seem to understand the type of mood that was supposed to be held when around a dead body. "But the best part is that they were bitten off."

"How do you know that?"

"You can tell by the shape of the wound. And they weren't sharp teeth either."

Sam took a closer look at the body, but Dean saw the rest of it before Sam.

"There are bite marks like that everywhere," he said. "But they're too small to be werewolf bites."

"That's because they're human," Sherlock said, sounding rather proud of himself.

They both looked up at him. "You think a _human_ did this?" Sam asked in revulsion.

"The cuts seem to have been done with a knife."

"And," John added, "Look how many major arteries are cut. The carotid, the radial, the femoral… they wanted this person to bleed, and bleed a lot."

"See, this is why I have you around, _Dr_. Watson," Sherlock said. "And, that being said John, what's missing from this site?"

"Blood," he replied.

"So where's all the blood at?" Dean asked aloud, though it was a rhetorical question. "You're right, a werewolf doesn't bleed someone out like this. And even if it did, the blood would all still be here."

"What are you over here talking about werewolves for?" one of the men asked suspiciously. None of the men seemed to know what to say at first, so Sam said the first thing that came to mind.

"We like to LARP. You know, Live Action Role-Playing. It's kind of a hobby of ours."

The man looked at them like they were insane, but didn't say anything more on that. "Well, we're taking this body to the medical examiner now."

"Right, carry on," said Sherlock.

"LARPing?" Dean moaned to Sam when they were out of earshot.

"What else was I supposed to say?"

"I don't know, _anything_?"

"It wasn't the worst idea in the world," Sherlock disagreed.

"Want to come back to our flat to brainstorm?" asked John.

"You live together?" Dean blurted out.

John and Sherlock looked at him with eyebrows up. "Yes. Is that a problem?" John asked.

"No… no, of course not. I mean, what you do with... each other…"

"We aren't gay, if that's what you're getting at," John said in exasperation. From the look they gave each other, they got that a lot.

"Sure, thanks for giving us a place to say," Sam said before Dean could say any more insulting things.


	3. 221B Baker Street

They got back to the flat, which was, to say the least, interesting.

"This place is even weirder than the houses of some of the hunters we've known, which is saying something," Dean muttered to Sam. Sam would have told him he was being rude, except he agreed. It was generally cluttered, sure, but there was a human skull on the mantle and a science experiment in the kitchen and honestly, neither of them could see how it was livable. "I'm starting to think having a permanent residence is a bit overrated," Dean added. Sam smiled a little.

They didn't have too much time to marvel at the house, however, because they were too busy marveling at Sherlock Holmes. He was the single oddest person they had ever seen—which was, again, a big statement. He paced around, muttering to himself about odd things. He had very little regard for people or furniture, kind of walking over them instead of around them. He almost seemed a little to Sam like he used to be an addict—which Sam knew about from experience. Though Sherlock probably wasn't sucking on demon blood, Sam figured.

Sam got out his laptop and started looking up anything and everything that took out hearts. The only ones he knew off the top of his head were werewolves and Daevas, but a Daeva was pretty unlikely and they had ruled out werewolves.

"Will you stop with that noise?" Sherlock finally snapped. "I can't think."

Sam looked at him incredulously. Since nobody had been talking, Sherlock must have meant his nearly silent typing... either that or he had been thinking too loud for the consulting hunter.

"Well, I didn't realize your brain worked better than a computer," Dean said irritably.

"Really, Sherlock," John said, "stop being rude. This is their job."

"And the reason why they've come to me is because I do it better."

"Hey, wise guy, we didn't come to you for anything!" Dean bellowed.

Sam was starting to get a little angry too, but wasn't as vocal as his brother about such things.

"Sherlock!"

John's yell surprised everyone in the room into silence, including Sherlock. "If you need to go to your mind palace or whatever, go to your room."

"Mind palace?" Dean asked dryly. Nobody paid him any attention.

"It's my house! Plus, you can't send me to my room, I'm not a child!"

"Sherlock..." John said in a warning voice.

Sherlock looked for a moment like he might come over and hit John, but then stomped out of the room.

"I wonder how dad could stand that guy," Dean said irritably. "How do you, as a matter of fact?" he added to John.

He smirked. "You get used to him, to a point, but I still get short with him from time to time."

"But seriously, what's a mind palace?" Sam asked with a grin.

John rolled his eyes. "Long story. So, what've you got?"

Sam's smile melted away. "Nothing at all. I've got no idea what this is."

Dean pulled their father's journal out of his bag. "I'll see if there are any monsters only native to Europe in here."

"Good thinking," Sam said.

That was when Sherlock came back into the room. "They're sacrifices."

Everyone looked up. Dean only looked for a second, but then seemed too irritated to even look and went back to flipping through the journal.

"Sacrifices?" Sam prompted.

"Sacrifices for pagan gods. It's why it seems a person's done it, why the heart would be gone, even the time of month."

"Okay… so what god?"

"I don't have a catalog of gods in my head. Use that computer of yours, since it's so smart."

Dean looked up with an extremely menacing glare, but Sherlock didn't seem impressed.

"I'm assuming you have a guess," Sam said.

"Oh, no, go on," he said, looking straight at Dean.

John shut his eyes in irritation, but said nothing.

Sam kept searching, but now Sherlock was sitting in the front room, watching them with a knowing smirk on his face. Dean kept looking up at him like he might hit him.

It was another hour before Sam said, "I really can't find any gods in this area that want heart sacrifices."

That was when Sherlock chuckled. Dean shot up from his seat, approaching Sherlock. "If you know something, say it," he growled. Sherlock just looked up at him in an amused sort of way.

"Are you going to hit me then? John does it from time to time, so if that's what makes you people feel better, go right on ahead."

"Dean, sit down," Sam said.

"Shut up, Sammy."

"Sherlock, you're being a git," John said reasonably.

"I've been told I always am one," Sherlock said to John.

"No, not always."

Dean huffed loudly and left the flat, going down the stairs after he slammed the first door. Sam packed up his stuff in uncomfortable silence.

"I'm really sorry," John said, glaring at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring at the fireplace, completely unfazed.

"Thanks for the help," Sam said, really only as a pleasantry and only looking at John.

He met Dean outside.

"That guy is ridiculous. We've never needed help before, so why would we now?" Dean ranted.

"Actually, for once, I agree with you," Sam said.

They were a few steps down the street when someone said, "They're Aztec." They turned and Sherlock was standing in front of his door. "The reason you couldn't find anything was because you were researching pagan gods in _this_ area, but I think these are Aztec rituals. They use the blood, cut out the hearts, sometimes eat the flesh of the victims... it fits. Cihuateotl is the Aztec goddess of disease and misfortune and they sacrifice to her on the full harvest moon."

"Whatever," Dean said, continuing to walk, but Sam stopped.

"I considered Aztec, since they do a lot of heart sacrifices, but I figured there would be no reason to sacrifice to it here. We're nowhere near South America."

Sherlock smiled. "But the Aztec culture isn't really around anymore, is it?"

Sam looked to Dean, who had stopped walking. "Remember when we fought Paris Hilton?" he asked.

"You fought Paris Hilton?" John asked. Sam and Dean hadn't seen him come out.

"She was technically a pagan god called the Leshii, she just looked like Paris Hilton at the time," Sam explained to him, before continuing, "That was a pagan god from Europe who came to America because it thought it would get more attention there. Couldn't an Aztec god do the same thing?"

Dean looked up at Sam, ignoring Sherlock. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But if it is this Chicka-something-or-other, how do we find it?"

Sam was stumped there. "First let's figure out how to kill it, before we go running off to find it. Maybe a stake like with other pagan gods, or she might have a center of power in the area, like the Vanir with The First Tree."

"But none of that helps if we don't know where to find it."

"Don't suppose you want to hear what I have to say?" Sherlock asked.

"Not really," Dean said.

"Come on, Dean, he's the one who figured it out," Sam insisted.

"Fine. What's your idea, wise guy?"

Sherlock ignored the slight. "I say we pretend to do a sacrifice. Then she'll show up to be honored and then you kill her."

For the first time in hours, Dean smiled a little. "I like the way you think," he said, almost grudgingly.

"And it's a good point," Sam added. "We can figure out how we might kill her and then set up a ritual. Question is, who would volunteer to get sliced at?"

"Sounds like fun."

The boys both turned and looked to the voice of John Watson.

"What?" Dean asked blankly. Dean got the impression that John was a much braver guy than he appeared. Then again, if he could handle being around Sherlock Holmes this often, he was probably tough as nails.

"John, that's stupid," they were surprised to hear Sherlock say.

"Someone's got to do it."

"Then I'll do it," he replied. It got quiet for a moment. "Hey, one or two people might miss you if it goes wrong. Nobody'd miss me."

"Don't say that, Sherlock," John scolded.

"You don't need to deny the truth, John. Plus, how could it go wrong when they've got an angel to heal me?"

"How could you possibly know about Cas?" Dean asked in exasperation.

"I heard Anderson blabbering on about three maniacs that appeared in the middle of Oxford street. I don't know of many creatures that have the ability to transport this way, but obviously you can't do it and you wouldn't let someone evil do it. I know angels can teleport, because I teleported with one once. It seems the only logical explanation."

"How would _you_ know an angel?" Dean accused.

Sherlock smirked. "I've seen more than you would think. Now, come back inside, it's going to rain in less than a minute and we have a pagan goddess to trick."

* * *

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	4. Cihuateotl

They were lucky when their father's journal had a bit to say on the Aztec gods. It seemed their father hadn't had to deal with them often, since they usually stayed in Aztec territory, but other hunters had dealt with them in the past. Four of them had been killed by wooden stakes made of Mexican white pine dipped in deer's blood and one random one had been done away with by decapitation with a copper axe. Considering that four of the five got killed by the same thing, they figured the last was a bit of a statistical fluke and went with the stakes. It was hard enough to get the right wood for _those_ in London without looking for something else.

Sherlock, however, made the job a little easier. He had contacts, people who found him weird things when he needed them. Dean thought he heard something about homeless people, but he figured he heard wrong. He was only grudgingly letting the guy help anyway, though he did respect him a little for volunteering to be the sacrifice. John still kept saying he would do it, but every time he did, Sherlock would glare at him until he shut up.

They also had to look up the parts of the ceremony, which was a little more difficult, but it seemed that more people sacrificed to the Aztec gods than they thought, because they found several sites that said in detail how to do it and they all said mostly the same thing.

Basically, it took some creepy stuff. Blood, bones, drawings on the walls… they already figured that the bodies had been dumped from wherever the murders actually happened, since there wasn't any blood, but this made them all wonder: where _had_ they pulled this off without notice?

"Blood from a powerful being?" Sam read. Dean looked over his shoulder. All the sites had just said blood, not specifying, but this site stated that the more powerful the being, the happier the god would be.

"What kind of being are they talkin' about anyway, a demon? Another pagan god?"

"Or an angel," Sherlock said behind them.

They both looked. "We can't bleed out an angel, dude," Dean insisted. "That's messed up."

"Indeed, but it would probably work. Why don't you call your angel friend and get a little of his?"

"Cas won't agree to—" Sam was saying, but before he could finish the sentence, Castiel appeared about an inch behind Dean.

"You still aren't getting that personal space thing," Dean grumbled.

"I apologize," Cas replied, backing up. "So why did you call?"

"We were actually just discussing you," Sam said, "we didn't mean to—"

"They want a bit of your blood," Sherlock said. Castiel looked to Sherlock, seeming to read everything in his soul in a second. It was impossible to tell what he thought of it. He looked over to John.

"John Hamish Watson," he said.

John looked around. "Yes?"

"You have the spirit of a Hunter, but still have a pure soul. That's isn't common."

John looked uncomfortable.

"Hey, you don't think I'm pure?" Dean mumbled.

"No, not particularly," Cas said, not really getting the idea of a sarcastic question. "Sam used to be, but the job did something to him." Sam didn't visibly react to the statement, but he didn't like it. "You, John Watson, will not be affected the same way when you start to hunt."

"Oh, you've got it all wrong, I'm not a hunter."

"But you want to be. And you will be."

At that Castiel vanished, and in his place was a sizable jar of blood.

Dean stood and picked up the jar. "Cas certainly has a way with words, doesn't he?"

It took them only a day to compile everything and luckily there were no other murders in that time span. They did the fake sacrifice in an abandoned warehouse.

Within an hour, they had the ritual ready. John was standing on the sidelines. Sam was poised to read the words to be spoken, which unfortunately were in Spanish. Dean had a ceremonial dagger in his hand, held over Sherlock, who was lying on the table. As far as they could tell, he seemed completely at ease with the whole situation.

Sam started stumbling over the words, at which Dean chuckled. He stopped reading to look at Dean pointedly, who shut his mouth a moment later. Sam tried again, and when they got to the part where the first incision had to be made, Dean hesitated.

"Do it," Sherlock said. "I showed you how. Do it _now_."

Dean, for once, didn't argue. He made the first cut. He glanced to John, who had a very calm look on his face too. Again, he thought he had judged John wrong initially.

It was when they made the first cut when the goddess Cihuateotl appeared. She had deep skin and a flowing Aztec robe and a particularly merciless look on her face. They hoped that the goddess would be prideful enough that when she figured out the ritual was fake, she would want to kill them before leaving. Sam knew they had judged her correctly the moment she walked in.

Dean didn't waste any time. He took out the stake and dashed over to her. He was fast, faster than anyone in the room expected, but she was faster. She moved at the very last moment. "How dare you trick me!" she screeched. The boys were surprised when she spoke English."You will _burn_ for this!"

Sam dropped his script and took out his stake, ready to flank the goddess. Each time one of them made a swing, she was able to move out of the way just in time. They both looked at each other, able to communicate through their eyes. They knew one of them would have to pin her while the other stabbed.

Sam was the first one who got an opening. He grabbed Cihuateotl from behind, taking both of her arms. Before she could scream much more, Dean was able to thrust the stake into her heart.

And absolutely nothing happened.

She began to laugh. Sam, in his surprise, had loosened his grip, so she wriggled out of his grip. "_Fools_! You cannot kill me!"

She pushed them both into the wall, making them both momentarily dazed. In that time she strided over to Sherlock.

"You shall be my real sacrifice, now!" she bellowed, her voice suddenly lower pitched and terrifying, and she put her hand on Sherlock's chest. "DIE!"


	5. Goodbyes

Sam and Dean were just getting up to save the day when they saw John run forward and swing a weapon they had not seen him holding: a copper axe.

His aim was perfect. One moment, she was digging her nails into Sherlock's chest and the next, her head was rolling on the ground. Her body went limp and fell to meet her head. John didn't bother to take a good look at his kill, instead looking to Sherlock.

"She did those cuts with her nails?" he asked.

"Good thing I've gotten a Tetanus shot recently."

Both of the men looked at each other for a moment, and then started laughing. It was one of those moments that Sam and Dean figured they probably had a lot.

But once the boys were up, the laughing died away.

"How did you know to use the axe?" Sam asked.

"I figured it would be a good idea to have one, in case the stake didn't work," Sherlock said, sitting up. This made blood start to trickle from five small curved marks on his chest, but he ignored them.

"Why didn't you tell us you thought that, then?" Dean snapped.

"Because John wanted to be of some use. And he was."

Dean had been waiting to respond vehemently, but Sherlock gave about the only explanation that he didn't know how to counter. However obnoxious Sherlock was, John was rather likable.

"I never said that," John said.

"No, but the angel was right. You have been intrigued ever since these Winchester's showed up, even that first time, so many years ago."

"I never—"

"John, are you really going to tell me that I incorrectly deduced something? Because _nobody_ would believe that, not even you."

John sighed. "Yes, okay, I was a little interested."

"You did great," Dean said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"And just in the nick of time," Sam added. "Dean and I are really good at 'at the last second', but you probably compete with us on that one."

John looked down, pretending not to be flattered. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said to Sherlock.

They got back to the flat without anyone looking at Sherlock oddly because he used his coat to cover the cuts. Once they had him sitting on the settee, John went to the kitchen to get a rag.

"Honestly, they're a few cuts, stop worrying over me."

"Cuts that are probably infected with freaky Aztec magic," Dean corrected.

"Just let me clean it up a little," John said.

"Please, John, this is—"

"Trust me, I'm a doctor," John said with a little smile. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but was silent as John patched him up. "Are you two alright?" he asked the brothers.

They didn't get out completely unscathed, but neither of them thought they needed any care from a doctor for their injuries.

"We're fine," Dean said.

"So, I guess that means we're done here," Sam said to Dean.

"Yeah, we can call Cas to take us back to the states."

"So you really do this all the time?" John asked in interest.

"Yeah, we were kind of raised in it," Sam said.

"Do you get paid?"

Dean chuckled. "If by 'paid' you mean do credit card scams, then yeah, we're loaded."

John smiled. "Well, if Sherlock didn't scare you off, come back any time."

"He scared us off," Dean assured him.

"But," Sam added, "if we need help, we'll give you a call." Unless some other contact can fix it, Sam added in his head. He would definitely call Bobby before Sherlock.

"So maybe I was wrong," Sherlock said. He had only muttered it, but the words sounded so foreign coming from him that everyone looked.

"What was that?" Dean said with a small smile, cupping his hand around his ear.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Maybe you two are better at your job than I am," he said. "You were rather impressive, fighting Cihuateotl."

"Damn straight," Dean replied. To their surprise, Sherlock smiled a little.

"But I still am the one that figured out how to find her. And kill her. And—"

"Yeah, we get it, you're incredible," John muttered.

At that the brothers said their goodbyes, packed up, and went outside.

"So can we never talk to Sherlock Holmes again?" Dean asked.

"Fine by me," Sam replied.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Now take a few more seconds to review the story. Hey, don't you go changing the page. It'll only take a second. Or maybe three.**


	6. The Untraceable Enemy

**Hey there guys! This story is over, but at the request of a few readers, I am working on a sequel. It's called "The Untraceable Enemy" and can be found on my page.**

**Hope you like it!**


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